


Cry to the Clouds

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Series: Tales of the Aurelii [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Politics, Animal Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, College of Winterhold - Freeform, Companions, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Fantastic Racism, Implied Slash, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi, Non-Canon Dragonborn, Stormcloaks, The Imperial Legion - Freeform, Thieves Guild, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: Ulfric Stormcloak lies dead at Helgen. His widow, Sigdrifa Stormsword, must struggle to keep the rebellion going while proving herself as the general Ulfric always knew her to be.Ralof of Riverwood finds himself with a burden no one, least of all he, expected.Korli Clever-Crafter has returned home from Solstheim with the secret of stalhrim and finds her foster family in peril.Past and present collide in the fight for Skyrim's future.





	1. Prologue: Ill News

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, animal cruelty and mentions of torture, massacre and war crimes. Yes, another version of the Aurelii because I like the idea of a badass!Lia/Korli and Sigdrifa Stormsword. I’m excited for Skyrim Remastered.

 

The first time that Ralof of Riverwood had stood before the Throne of Ysgramor, he’d been a callow youth in ill-fitting fur armour with a woodcutter’s axe on his hip and a beard more peach fuzz than anything else. Sigdrifa had figured he would run back to his little village in the Jerall foothills or die young in some border skirmish as Ulfric solidified the territory he and the Jarls of the north and east held in preparation for the war to free Skyrim. That was… about seventeen years ago. No, sixteen, because her womb was heavy with Bjarni and he’d been born two moons later just before year’s end.

            Yes, sixteen years ago Ralof had alighted on their doorstep, vowing sword and life to Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Eastmarch. From youth to man; newblood to head of Ulfric’s personal guard; naked arms to more silver on his biceps and forearms than anyone other than Galmar Stone-Fist or a Hold commander. In many ways, the soldier had shared more of her husband’s life than she. Such was the way of things, the long years running into spring restlessness, summer absences, autumn reunions and winter planning before the cycle started anew.

            Now Ralof stood before the Throne of Ysgramor, bloodstained and smoke-scented, a scrap of bearskin in his hands. The golden armring of a Jarl, thrice-knotted and four fingers thick; the signet of Eastmarch with its stylised bear etched deep into the silver; an Amulet of Talos dark and worn by years pressed against sweaty skin. The hereditary weapon of Ulfric’s lineage was laid across the Throne in anticipation of his return. It would now sit there until a new Jarl – or Regent – was confirmed by the Holdmoot.

            “Were you any other man but Galmar, I would execute you for cowardice,” Sigdrifa finally said, her voice harsh and pitiless as the raven she was named for as it echoed across the great hall. “But I know you would have only left Ulfric’s side at the end by his express command because you loved him too much.”

            Ralof’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “He was more a father to me than my own,” the Whiterun Nord finally said. “At the end, he stood on his feet with axe in hand, meeting dragon’s fire unflinchingly so that Stormcloak soldiers could escape.”

            A thrill of surprise ran through her veins. “You weren’t lovers? Ulfric’s preferences were known to me _long_ before I married him, Ralof. I hold no judgment if-“

            “You mistake me for Galmar, Stormsword.” Ralof’s voice was firm.

            So few called her by the honour-name she’d earned in the Great War these days. They’d forgotten the shieldmaiden, the Blade’s bride and the general. It had suited Ulfric that memories faded, the mighty of Skyrim thinking of Sigdrifa only in terms of a strategic alliance and broodmare for Eastmarch. Ralof had done his research – or Ulfric had told him one night when deep in his cups.

            “I apologise. You’d stuck so loyally to Ulfric’s side, no rumoured romance…” Sigdrifa shrugged helplessly.

            “I made a vow before Talos to take no wife until Skyrim was free from the Empire,” the blond man replied simply. “If we failed, I couldn’t condemn a woman I loved to death or worse.”

            Sigdrifa could damn well imagine the worse. The Legion was unforgiving at the best of times and with Titus Mede II’s rule riddled with rebellions after he signed the White-Gold Concordat and bartered away Talos for a temporary peace, they’d become even more vicious. Ulfric had been captured in the carnificina, the extermination, where everyone within a certain radius was collected and executed in order to make a point.

            “The war isn’t over. Not by a long shot.” Sigdrifa looked at her knotted, gnarled hands. “Galmar was Ulfric’s sword in the field. _I_ was his general.”

            “I know, Stormsword.”

            Sigdrifa gestured for him to lay the bearskin bundle on the feasting table. “I will tell Bjarni and Egil in the morning. Unless it would come better from you?”

            Ralof shook his head. “No. Better you tell them.”

            She nodded with a heavy sigh. The burden had fallen on her shoulders. No one else could serve as Bjarni’s Regent. At fifteen and not even an ice-wraith hunt to his name, it would be a good year or three before he inherited in peace – and as they were at war, he’d been eighteen or nineteen before the Thanes would even consider him as Jarl. “I need huscarls for the boys. Who do you recommend?”

            “Calder for Bjarni,” the warrior promptly replied. “If you’re willing to take a sellsword into service, Stenvar would suit Egil well.”

            “I’ll consider it. Galmar will just hang on long enough to keep his promises to Ulfric, so he can’t serve as either boy’s protector.” Sigdrifa’s mouth quirked humourlessly to the side. “They’ll need those huscarls. The Empire will try to weaken us by capturing or murdering Ulfric’s heirs.”

            “That’s not even considering the Thanes who will feel they can guide the boys better than you,” Ralof pointed out with more political savvy than she realised he possessed. It seemed the Riverwood lumberjack’s son had learned by observing the court.

            “I know. And no one else can be their Regent.” Sigdrifa sighed and studied the last effects of Ulfric. “I seem cold, I know. But Ulfric wouldn’t want us to waste time in mourning when we could be winning Skyrim free of the Empire.”

            “I know.” Ralof regarded her with grim sky-blue eyes. “But what of the dragon that attacked Helgen?”

            “We are now in the time of the Prophecy of the Dragonborn,” Sigdrifa answered heavily. “Torygg’s death was the last sign. But there’s nothing me and thee can do, as my mother used to say. The Dragonborn will arise and contend with Alduin for the fate of Nirn. Talos willing, they will be a Stormcloak. If not, then may they stay out of the civil war.”

            “And if they are Imperial?”

            “Then we hold hard and fast until Alduin is banished, then slay them.” Sigdrifa prided herself on her pragmatism for the sake of Skyrim. “Even the Blades had such a contingency plan should the Dragonborn be… of questionable morality.”

            Ralof’s mouth tightened and Sigdrifa sighed inwardly. He was a warrior, honourable and true – and completely unaware of the moral compromises a ruler had to make. “It seems a poor reward, no matter their allegiance.”

            “Unless they’re a bloody Septim returned who will restore Talos’ rightful place amongst the Nine Divines, I’ll be damned before I allow the Dragonborn to bind Skyrim tighter to the Empire!” Sigdrifa snapped. “You hate the Legion because they let the Thalmor take away your cousin. _I_ hate Titus Mede II and his entire wretched Empire because they took my God, tortured my husband and let the Thalmor murder my daughter!”

            Ralof stepped back in the face of her rage. Sigdrifa wrestled her temper into submission, cursing herself for losing it in front of a man who could cause a lot of damage if he wanted to. She needed the warrior on her side.

            “You… had a daughter?” he finally asked. “Ulfric never mentioned…”

            “I was married once before to the son of the Blades Grandmaster,” Sigdrifa admitted wearily. “Rustem and I were… a poor match. Ulfric was a better one despite our incompatibility in bed. Arius, that ambitious crazy bastard of an Aurelii, called our daughter Aurelia Callaina because she had my turquoise eyes. She died at Cloud Ruler Temple when the Thalmor purged it while I and Irkand were saving Ulfric thousands of miles away.”

            “Irkand – the Redguard Companion?”

            “The one and the same. Probably the last openly known Blade in Tamriel.” Sigdrifa’s smile was a little sour. “My former brother-in-law and probably the only Aurelii I wouldn’t blood-eagle on principle.”

            “I’m sorry.” Ralof’s tones were quiet and sincere.

            “Don’t be. If Talos is kind, _he’d_ be the Dragonborn. The best killer in three nations and completely unambitious but no friend to the Empire or the goldskins…” She sighed again. “The gods won’t be that kind. Go get some sleep, Ralof. Tomorrow will the first day of many spent trying to protect Ulfric’s legacy from fools and traitors.”

            The warrior paused before bowing slightly and exiting the great hall.

            Sigdrifa allowed herself to sag into her seat and let the tears fall. Ulfric had died when she – and Skyrim – needed him the most. He’d been the charisma – or as Galmar laughingly put it, the beauty to his brawn and Sigdrifa’s brains.

            Now it was left to her. Galmar would be broken by grief. The boys were too young. The Thanes and other Jarls thought her of little consequence in the scheme of things.

            Will they, nil they, she would teach them otherwise – or see Skyrim be devoured by the World-Eater rather than fall into the Legion’s hands once again.


	2. Condolences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for mentions of death, animal sacrifice, violence, fantastic racism and torture.

 

Ulfric Stormcloak was dead but the rebellion he inspired would live on.

            Ralof Stormblade stood by Bjarni’s side as he received the delegations of mourners from around Skyrim and even beyond its borders, the late Jarl’s eldest son appropriately stone-faced and solemn. Each dignitary brought a proper gift to lay on Ulfric’s pyre, which would burn some of his most prized possessions – including his favourite horse and hound – in lieu of an actual corpse. Nothing survived of the tower where Ulfric made his last stand, the scouts reported, but blackened stone and charred wood. The dragon’s fire was too intense to leave something as fragile as human flesh.

            After learning the description of the dragon, Sigdrifa had made it known Ulfric stood against the World-Eater himself, because everyone knew the prophecy-song and how the harbinger of the end-times’ wings were black as night. _“It took nothing less than the World-Eater to slay Ulfric Stormcloak!”_ she’d croaked to the Thanes of Eastmarch. _“So he awaits us in Sovngarde to bring the news of Skyrim’s liberation from the Empire.”_

 _“What about the dragons?”_ asked Torsten Cruel-Sea.

            _“The gods have promised us the Dragonborn and we will give them the assistance they require,”_ the Stormsword responded harshly. _“Talos willing, they will be a Stormcloak, willing to become a Stormcloak or at least stay out of the civil war.”_

The day after Bjarni learned of his father’s death, the young Jarl-to-be asked Ralof to take him to the ice-fields in the Sea of Ghosts and summon an ice-wraith as the sun rose amber-gold over the mountains that divided Skyrim from Morrowind. As his closest male kin, the soldier obliged, and by noon they returned with Bjarni proudly bearing the blue-silver scars of one who’d laid an ancestor to rest. The next day, Ralof took Egil out to Yngol’s Barrow for the same reason, and Ulfric’s youngest son – likely to inherit Sigdrifa’s ancestral Hold of Falkreath – came back with similar scars. Despite their meagre years, both lads were now permitted to speak at the Holdmoot in their own right, if not wear the arm-ring of a warrior until they actually killed a man in battle.

            The Stormsword had been less than impressed. She’d claimed the Regency of Eastmarch until Bjarni should be considered worthy by the Thanes, a decision that the Holdmoot grumbled at but confirmed. Galmar was too shattered to rule and Ralof lacked the authority despite being Ulfric’s blood-brother, so that left the former general and shieldmaiden as the only option. It was amusing how many former Legion soldiers suddenly remembered her past when she marched into the Great Hall wearing the shock-enchanted broadsword that gave her the byname that even her sons referred to her by.

            Her confession of a previous marriage that produced a daughter certainly stunned Ralof. Not once had she breathed of an association with the Blades nor the child who had (presumably) died at the hands of the Thalmor. He dared not press further with the Stormsword because as Regent, she could cause a lot of damage. Ralof honoured and trusted her as Ulfric’s widow but he wasn’t blind to her lack of charisma and cold pragmatic ruthlessness. Tempered by Ulfric’s charisma and honour, it had been a blade turned against the enemies of Skyrim. Unchecked, it could prove dangerous.

            He pulled himself from his reverie as the Companions Skjor the Scarred, Aela the Huntress and Irkand Aurelius stepped forward. Ulfric told him once that Skjor, Irkand and Sigdrifa had rescued him from the Thalmor’s torture camps. That alone was enough to greet them with honour above and beyond their status as the heirs of Ysgramor.

            The trio made the traditional right fist to left shoulder salute of the Companions to the Throne of Ysgramor before greeting Bjarni with deep nods. No one who carried Skyforge Steel on hip or back knelt to anyone except maybe the High King of Skyrim. Ralof took the opportunity to study them through hooded eyes.

            Skjor was grey-haired but still physically tough, a Nord just past his fighting prime yet still capable of taking down men half his age. Aela was athletic in her traditional brown leather armour, passed down from mother to daughter since the time of Hroti Blackblade. Irkand was of a vintage with Skjor, stocky for a Redguard with the aquiline features of an Imperial and the sinuous grace of an assassin – or Blade. Oftentimes, Ulfric claimed, the two were one and the same.

            He was the Stormsword’s former brother-in-law and the only member of the Aurelii – a notorious Imperial clan – she wouldn’t torture to death on principle. Ralof could only assume he’d come here to offer his respects because his expression had nothing of grief or sympathy in it.

            Bjarni squared his shoulders on facing the Companions. Like any Nord youth, he’d dreamed of joining them – or at least training at Jorrvaskr in the ways of war and honour. Ralof was suddenly glad he’d taken the boys out on their ice-wraith hunts because it meant they could speak as men, if not equals, to these three.

            “The Companions send their condolences for the death of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak,” Skjor announced formally. “He was, despite his faults, a man of honour.”

            “We are honoured to receive the condolences of the heirs of Jorrvaskr,” Bjarni said with equal politeness.

            Irkand watched the young man with the unblinking gaze of a serpent. Ralof found himself praying that this man was _not_ the Dragonborn as Sigdrifa devoutly wished. The Companion was a tool and someone like that with the power of the Thu’um-

            -Would be even more dangerous than an unfettered Sigdrifa on Eastmarch’s throne. Worse if it was she who wielded him.

            Aela lay a magnificent snow-white bearskin on the pile of goods meant to be burnt on Ulfric’s pyre. “I regret we can’t stay for the funeral but a Companion’s work is never done,” the Huntress said calmly. “May your father’s soul find Sovngarde.”

            Ralof’s fists tightened at the dismissive tone in the Huntress’ voice. Sovngarde was the goal of every worthy Nord yet she sounded… unimpressed, offering the wish by rote.

            It would do no good to call her out on it, so he settled for remaining silent. Irkand glanced once his way, noted the clenched fists, and turned to Sigdrifa, who by dint of the condolences ceremony was standing by the pile of goods. While she was Regent, Bjarni was head of the household and so she had to remain silent unless directly addressed. Ralof knew she seethed.

            “The Companions are happy to assist with any internal dangers facing Eastmarch in this chaotic time,” he told her in an oiled-silk tenor, pure Colovian in its accent. “For you, kinswoman, I will set no price if you ask for me.”

            Sigdrifa smiled thinly. “That is a kind offer, kinsman.”

            “Whilst Jorrvaskr must remain politically neutral as per ancient custom, any halfwit can see that the Thalmor are our ultimate enemies,” Irkand observed. “With you in command, I’m sure the Empire will be fleeing Skyrim in months.”

            “You flatter me, Irkand.” Sigdrifa’s harsh voice was rich with pride though. Oh, she mourned Ulfric honestly, but Ralof knew she was looking forward to proving herself. He just hoped that her manner didn’t turn away more honourable allies.

            “It is no flattery when it is fact.” Irkand’s broad shoulders shrugged. “Forgive us, but we need to rescue some idiot who got himself kidnapped. Talos guide and protect you, kinswoman.”

            “And you, kinsman.”

            The Companions nodded again and removed themselves from the Great Hall. Only their replacement by Laila Law-Giver and her son Harrald distracted Ralof from bringing up their lack of courtesy.

            After the Jarl of Riften, the foreign dignitaries made themselves known – a few High Rock nobles looking for political advantage, a disinterested Dunmer, and a pair of Alik’r warriors from Hammerfell. Bjarni made the right noises – Ulfric had taught him well – and all but the Redguards left the Palace. Ralof narrowed his eyes at the duo, wondering what they wanted.

            The elder was Beroc of Dragonstar, a Crown noble judging by the plaited headband of gilded leather and scarlet silk around his cloud-white hair, and the younger was his great-grandson Cirroc, who wore no factional marks but had a beaky Colovian nose.

            “If we may have a further moment of your time, Lord Bjarni, we’d like to make a request,” Beroc announced in a still-strong baritone. He looked older than Vignar Grey-Mane of the Companions, who was surely eighty, but Ralof would hate to cross blades with him. Redguards always made good enemies, even if they were a bit underhanded at times compared to a Nord.

            “Of course,” Bjarni agreed. Only Ralof could see the boy’s exhaustion.

            “My grandson and I are part of an Alik’r team hunting a traitor – Iman al-Sudra, she who delivered the city of Taneth into Thalmor hands during the Great War,” Beroc continued without preamble. “We’d like permission to operate in Eastmarch.”

            Bjarni nodded. “Do you have a physical description? We can’t spare any Stormcloaks but if one of our people happen to find her, we can pass the information on to you.”

            Beroc’s smile was that of unexpected pleasure. “That would be most welcome, Lord Bjarni! She is a Redguard woman in her late forties, fair to look upon but with scars on her left cheek, sensuous and smooth-voiced.”

            Egil, for the first time since the ceremony started, stirred and spoke. Quiet and sombre, the younger son of Ulfric was more prone to thought than deed, though he was brave enough when necessary. In his pragmatism, he was the Stormsword’s child, though his father had given him rather more charisma.

            “Ralof, do you remember the last time we went to Whiterun, before the war began in earnest?”

            Though cracking, Egil’s baritone was pure Ulfric, lacking only the thunder of the Thu’um to make it rumble.

            “I do, Lord Egil,” Ralof confirmed with a bow. “I recall there being several Redguard women in the Hold.”

            “But only one of them, the tavern maid calling herself Saadia, had scars on her cheek and a… seductive manner.” Egil flushed a little and Ralof found himself echoing it.

            “Yeah, I remember,” he said awkwardly. He’d slept with the woman.

            Beroc gave Ralof a sympathetic smile. “You’re not the first to fall for the woman’s wiles, Lord Ralof. At least you woke up afterwards. The gate-guard she seduced in Taneth didn’t.”

            “Since Ralof knows her so well, he can accompany you to Whiterun to apprehend the woman,” Sigdrifa decreed. “He is a native of the Hold and knows where she works.”

            Cirroc shifted a little. He looked young, though a little older than Bjarni, and eager to prove himself. “Whiterun – that’s where the Companions come from, right?”

            “Yes,” Bjarni confirmed before glancing at Ralof. “Kinsman?”

            “I’ll go,” Ralof said after regarding the Stormsword for a long moment. “If we take this woman quickly, you might very well have the time to meet some Companions, Lord Cirroc. The Hero-Twins in particular drink often at the Bannered Mare where Saadia works.”

            “No duels,” Beroc told his great-grandson firmly. “Just because you’re the sword-champion of Dragonstar doesn’t mean you’re capable of taking on a hardened warrior yet.”

            Cirroc shared a look with Bjarni that spoke of youth’s exasperation with an elder’s strictures. Ralof knew it well because he’d been that youth once.

            “Stormsword,” he said calmly. “As Ulfric’s nearest male kinsman, it is on me it would do Lord Bjarni some good to foster with his Grey-Mane relatives in Whiterun for a few months. Balgruuf the Greater, no matter how gold-hungry he may be, wouldn’t allow harm to befall the heir of Windhelm.”

            _Especially since that heir might take his brat-daughter to wife one day,_ he added in sour silence.

            The glare Sigdrifa bestowed upon him was cold, her turquoise eyes little chips of sea-ice. “You’re correct, Ralof,” she agreed. “In light of that, I think you need to take command of the Whiterun forces. Balgruuf must make a decision soon – we’ll need that dragon-trap of his.”

            Bjarni was already grinning despite his grief for his father. The Grey-Manes had ties to the Companions and while he couldn’t actually join them, the heirs of Jorrvaskr often trained future Jarls, and all Grey-Manes had the right of shelter in Jorrvaskr because they worked the Skyforge.

            Ralof bowed correctly to Sigdrifa. “Of course, Stormsword. The safety of my kinsmen is my top priority.”

            “I’m glad it’s so.” Sigdrifa turned to Beroc, whose brown eyes were shrewd. He understood the byplay between them. “Please accept my hospitality for the night. Ulfric will be sped to Sovngarde on the morrow.”

            “It would be our honour to accept,” the Redguard said smoothly. “While Lords Bjarni and Ralof travel with us, they will be as my own kin, sons of the Alik’r.”

            “No duels,” Egil told his brother. “I’d rather not lose my brother so soon after my father.”

            Bjarni nearly pouted but instead nodded with a sigh. “I’ll behave. I’ll even be nice to Dagny.”

            “Seeing as she’d make an excellent match, of course you will,” Sigdrifa agreed harshly. “We need Balgruuf on our side. His trade connections and wealth will aid the fight to free Skyrim.”

            Egil stepped from the shadows. “I’ll stand vigil over Father’s pyre in preparation for tomorrow.”

            “I’ll relieve you at midnight,” Ralof said quietly. He owed his blood-brother and benefactor that much.

            The younger son of Ulfric nodded and strode for the doors. It would be a bitter watch for him, though a colder one for Ralof.

            Ralof watched him leave and wondered.


	3. The Clever-Crafter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism and mentions of genocide and torture involving minors. Loads of head-canon involving Redguard lore.

 

“So what do you know about Skjor the Scarred, Aela the Huntress and Irkand Aurelius?” Cirroc asked his new travelling companion Bjarni. Even if an Empire-free Skyrim hadn’t been deemed a desirable outcome for Hammerfell, he would have liked to be friends with the son of Ulfric Stormcloak. The Nord was of an age with him and already bore the heavy muscles of one trained to fight with peculiar silver-blue scars on his forearms. If he hadn’t killed a man yet it was simply because the Stormsword didn’t let him fight. With Skyrim infested with bandits and deserters from both sides of the civil war, that would change on the trip to Whiterun.

            “Skjor is the third-eldest of the Companions with only Kodlak Whitemane, who’s Harbinger, and Vignar Grey-Mane being older,” Bjarni explained as he fastened his snow-bear cloak with leather thongs. His armour was a chain shirt over leather tunic and breeches with bracers and greaves engraved with Nordic designs, all from the finest steel. “He’s most known for helping Kodlak face off against forty or so Orcish berserkers at the Siege of Dushnik Yal. Damn near killed both Companions but after losing about thirty of his sons, the Chief agreed to single combat as a means of saving face. He died, of course, because Skjor’s the finest duellist in Skyrim.”

            The young Redguard nodded thoughtfully. If he could talk his great-grandfather into letting him join the Companions, Skjor would be one to learn from. “Aela?”

            “Finest huntress and tracker in Skyrim. There are some who say she lacks honour because she’s an archer but as she says, ‘If you can only defeat an enemy who’s coming straight at you because you’re blind as a boar and thick as a horker, you have no right to call yourself a warrior’.” Bjarni shrugged his cloak into place. “She and Skjor are handfasted in the old ways and their children will be able to trace their ancestry back to Hroti Blackblade, who came on the Jorrvaskr with Jeek of the River under Ysgramor himself.”

            Cirroc chuckled slightly. “Reminds me of a proverb from the _Book of Circles_ : ‘A thrust is elegant, and a cut is powerful, but sometimes the right action is a head-butt’.”

            Bjarni grinned, the expression failing to dispel the grief in his blue-green eyes. Thrown into Skyrim politics at such a young age would leave its mark on the Nord and Cirroc had the feeling that he was closer to Ulfric than Sigdrifa. “My mother used to quote that whenever she was trying to arrange a tutor in a different combat style for us. Egil took to the learning better than I but then, he’s definitely the Stormsword’s son in that regard.”

            “He’s certainly no idiot,” Cirroc agreed. “Err, I’m not saying you are…”

            The young man glanced in Ralof’s direction as he and Beroc bought horses for the journey from the stablemaster. Solid animals, piebald brown-black and creamy white, with feathered hooves and dim eyes. Nothing on the elegant beasts preferred by the Alik’r but suited to Skyrim’s harsh climate.

            “I would be happy with Falkreath,” he finally said. “Egil is the best of our parents. I don’t tell him that because he doesn’t need to be a conceited ass but…”

            Cirroc inclined his head. “I’m likely to inherit the rulership of Dragonstar. My paternal grandfather is Lord of the city but he’s a Colovian in Redguard clothing and a Forebear to boot. Father’s the High Priest of HoonDing – our god of… hmm… ‘making way over those who would trouble the Redguards’. One of His aspects, Sura-HoonDing, is a bit like your Talos and actually became a god kicking the shit out of Talos’ army until the Stormcrown realised that the Redguards made for better allies than vassals.”

            Bjarni’s eyebrow arched curiously. “Did They ever fight?”

            “Not directly. Talos was old when He tried to conquer Hammerfell and Sura-HoonDing, called Cyrus the Restless as a mortal, fought the governor, the Dunmer assassin and the red dragon Nafaalilargus with a sword that contained the soul of the heroic Prince A’Tor of the Crowns.” Cirroc had never gotten the chance to tell Redguard history to a Nord who was listening politely, without the whole shrieking about Talos being undefeated thing. “He won but He knew the Empire was there to stay. Sura-HoonDing just wanted to make Talos _earn_ the right to rule Hammerfell.”

             “Redguards always make the best enemies,” Bjarni observed wryly. “Even if you’re a bit underhanded at times.”

            Cirroc snickered. “I prefer to think of it as adapting tactics to best defeat an enemy.”

            “Heh.” Bjarni sighed and looked away. “Speaking of Redguards, Irkand Aurelius was a Blade and an assassin. Father says – said – that oftentimes there was no difference.”

            “Why is he with the Companions then?” Cirroc was fairly certain the whole ‘Nord honour’ thing precluded using assassins.

            “Because he and Skjor are old friends.” Bjarni shuddered a little. “He’s cold as a snake but my mother speaks well of him.”

            Cirroc refrained from mentioning that the Stormsword seemed cold as the ice-floes on the Sea of Ghosts. “Your mother strikes me as a woman who will use whatever tool falls to her hand,” he finally said.

            “And Irkand Aurelius is a tool,” Bjarni said quietly. “That is what I’ve heard about him – that he kills on order. Maybe that’s why he’s with the Companions – better someone like Skjor or Kodlak commanding him than the Dark Brotherhood.”

            That was as good an explanation as any. Cirroc decided to change the subject. “So, other members of the Companions?”

            “There’s old Vignar Grey-Mane. He never rose above the rank of full Companion but he’s a Thane of Whiterun and my nearest male blood-kin aside from Egil. Forty years a Legate in the Legion and now an ardent supporter of the Stormcloaks.” Bjarni smiled crookedly. “He’s forgotten more about war than many soldiers learned. He’s a good man to learn from.”

            Cirroc nodded. “Is he the one who works the Skyforge?”

            “No, that’s his brother Eorlund, the greatest wonder-smith in Skyrim.” Bjarni pulled on his chainmail until it jingled. “This isn’t Skyforge Steel – that’s reserved for the Companions – but it’s still enchanted to be light and comfortable. Don’t know how Eorlund does it, but he can enchant things without using soul-gems.”

            “That’s pretty damned impressive.” Cirroc grimaced. “Enchanted things aren’t popular in Hammerfell because it generally involves fucking around with something’s soul. Prince A’Tor willingly went into the Soul Sword and can communicate with whoever wields with it or even move the weapon on his own, but that’s about the only case where we’re comfortable with an enchanted weapon.”

            “I once heard Eorlund claim that every time a soul was trapped in a gem, it was a breath stolen from Kyne,” Ralof said as he approached the youths. “Ready to ride?”

            “Yes, sir,” Cirroc said with an Alik’r salute. Ralof was the ranking military officer and Beroc had made it clear he was to obey the golden-blond Nord on the road.

            “I’m not an Imperial Legate so you don’t need to ‘sir’ me,” Ralof observed dryly.

            “No, but you are the only military officer in our unit,” Beroc said calmly. “I told Cirroc to obey you as he would an Alik’r commander.”

            “Thank you.” Ralof rolled his shoulders and mounted a sturdy gelding, the others following suit. “Talos and your Sura-HoonDing willing, we’ll be able to avoid Legion patrols.”

            “May the gods of both our peoples watch over us,” Beroc agreed.

…

They travelled from the snowy coastline along the edges of the volcanic tundra and into the tangled woodlands that followed the line of the White River – Ralof giving Bjarni the names of every important landmark and Cirroc making careful note of it – before they reached the outpost of Valtheim Towers. Which, of course, was infested with bandits – with an archer patrolling the bridge over the river and another posted on the far side – who were demanding a toll from a female in the strangest armour the young Redguard had ever seen. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear it was similar in style to the plate that Ysgramor wore on the statue of him in the main square of Windhelm, carved and angular but fitted close to the body. He was fairly certain Ysgramor wasn’t wearing a helmet shaped like a hawk’s head though.

            The bandit was scrawny and clad in mismatched furs, her sword made from pitted iron probably pulled from someone’s grave. Yet she held it threateningly in the general direction of the traveller, whose shoulders were broad even under the heavy plate she wore.

            “Look, I don’t have time for this,” the female said in a low, sweet voice. “Get out of my way _now_.”

            Ralof and Beroc exchanged glances before dismounting. These bandits commanded too good a position for them to sneak by while the woman fought – and besides, they were holed up in a strategic location. Assuming about ten bandits or so, five highly trained warriors could make short work of them.

            “Cirroc, once battle is engaged, you are to take Bjarni and follow the road,” Ralof ordered softly. “Whiterun isn’t too distant and we will follow you as soon as possible.”

            “We can fight,” Bjarni pointed out.

            “Yes, you can. But I won’t risk you two in a fight with bandits.” Ralof’s voice was iron. “If we should fall, someone needs to know the bandits are here.”

            “If you won’t pay the toll, you’ll have to die,” the bandit said with malicious cheer.

            The warrior sighed and clenched her right fist. The bandit, who was a Nord, turned into a solid statue of ice which was shattered when she clenched the left. “Go, all of you,” she said over her shoulder as she drew a heavy steel-headed forge hammer from her belt. “I can deal with these scum.”

            Then one of the archers fired an arrow that hit Ralof’s horse. “Go, now!” the Stormcloak ordered the youths as he drew his warhammer.

            Cirroc smacked the side of Bjarni’s horse as he nudged his own. The two steeds shot off along the cobblestoned road, the young Nord swearing all the way.

            They stopped galloping somewhere around the corner where two wolves decided to attack. Cirroc added his own curses to Bjarni’s profanity as he threw Flames at the beasts, driving them away with a yelp and the stench of scorched fur. Then they dismounted, ready for the lupines to return.

            Bjarni proved efficient with his war axe, fending off snapping teeth until he could bury its steel into the wolf’s neck. Cirroc’s scimitar made equally short work of his opponent and soon, there were two dead wolves on the road.

            Of course, their horses had decided to continue fleeing towards Whiterun, leaving them to walk.

            “We’d better keep on going,” Cirroc panted. “Orders are orders.”

            Bjarni looked over his shoulder. “I hate it but you’re right. If Ralof, your kinsman and that woman die though-“

            “They’ll be drinking with your father in Sovngarde. Well, maybe not Great-Grandpa. He’ll be going to the Far Shores.” Cirroc noted a hill with some kind of standing stone. “That looks like a good vantage point. If we’re not so far from Whiterun, we should see the city from there.”

            A necromancer and two skeletons had taken up residence there. Bjarni roared something that sounded like thunder, making the Dunmer crap himself and turn his back, only to wind up wearing a thrown axe between his shoulders. The skeletons immediately collapsed into scattered bones as Cirroc regarded the Nord with some respect.

            “Dunmer necromancer’s your first kill. Think your father would be proud of you.”

            Much to his surprise, Bjarni burst into tears. Cirroc gave him an awkward side-hug until he was cried out. Probably didn’t have much chance to in Windhelm with having to be the man of the household and that.

            “Thank you,” Bjarni finally said. “Once Father died, Egil and I had to become men. So we asked Ralof to take us ice-wraith hunting so we could speak in the Holdmoot.”

            “What’s an ice-wraith?” Cirroc asked.

            “It is the lost soul of a Nord who died by snow or ice,” Bjarni responded, wiping his eyes. “They hunt their descendants to try and find some warmth. It’s our duty to lay them to rest, hence it being our adulthood rite.”

            “That bandit the woman killed…”

            “Will become an ice-wraith.” Bjarni sighed and looked at the big walled city across the river and fields that had to be Whiterun. It looked lush and prosperous. “A grim execution but one I can understand. Only the dishonourable become bandits.”

            “I’m _so_ glad you approve.” The amused female voice made them both start in surprise. Cirroc turned to face the woman, who’d removed her hawk-helmet to reveal aquiline olive-bronze features dominated by war-braided black hair and vivid blue-green eyes. Behind her were Ralof and Beroc, leading their horses. “Weren’t you boys told to keep moving?”

            “There were wolves and we lost our horses, we climbed the hill and found a necromancer that Bjarni killed,” Cirroc said defensively.

            “Yes, I saw the carcasses.” She gestured to the bloody rolls of fur strapped across her back. “Next time you kill animals, remember to skin them and thank their spirits for the sacrifice. You insult Kyne Sister-Hawk otherwise.”

            “And don’t forget to pick up and clean your weapons,” Beroc added pointedly.

            Cirroc flushed and Bjarni blushed red. That was one of the first things any warrior learned in the battle-circle.

            “Going to Whiterun, Stormcloak?” she asked of Ralof. “Or the camp in the hills?”

            “Whiterun,” Ralof admitted reluctantly. “I’m escorting the boy to foster-kin and the Alik’r are accompanying us.”

            Her blue-green eyes narrowed. “I, ah, assume this is the lad whose father with the ursine theme died recently?”

            “Why do you ask?” Bjarni demanded. “Just because of one alliance against bandits-“

            “Because, m’boy, I’m Korli Clever-Crafter,” she answered simply. “If you four agree to be blindfolded, I can get you into Whiterun without coming to the gate. The Empire’s got friends in the city and most of them would gladly sell you to the Legion, the Thalmor or both.”

            Her name meant nothing to Cirroc but Ralof was already nodding. “She’s foster-kin to the Grey-Manes herself, Bjarni, and the heir of Eorlund Grey-Mane. We can trust her.”

            Bjarni relaxed. “Praise Talos. We accept.”

            “As do we,” Beroc immediately said. “The Grey-Manes are known for their honour.”

            “Thank you.” She produced some bandages and blindfolded them all. “We’ll cut across the river. I’ll have some explaining to do but I think once the old man understands what’s going on, he’ll be fine with it.”

            “What about the horses?” Cirroc asked.

            “I’ve already put it into their heads to go to the stables. Skulnar will take care of them.” Korli’s voice was impatient. “Let’s go. There’s more goldskins than I like wandering around at the moment.”

            Their feet got wet after they descended a slope, ascended another and were guided to some kind of tunnel. Cirroc heard stone scrape against stone and felt a wild power beneath his feet before emerging into fresh air once more, stone grating once more.

            “Don’t look at me like that, Vilkas,” Korli said impatiently as they removed their blindfolds. “Bjarni’s here to foster with the Grey-Manes and the Alik’r were travelling with him.”

            The Hero-Twin Vilkas was rangy for a Nord with silver-grey eyes that burned like embers and short black hair. “Why didn’t you bring them along the road?”

            “Because there were bandits at Valtheim Towers, a necromancer at the Ritual Stone and that bastard Hajvarr Ironhand at White River Watch,” the woman retorted. “I blindfolded them just past the Ritual Stone, okay?”

            Vilkas grunted sourly. “Fine. You better get to your clan’s house.”

            “Why?”

            The Companion’s expression was grim. “Your brother Thorald has gone missing.”


	4. The Grim News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for misogyny, fat-shaming and mentions of death, fantastic racism, violence, genocide and torture.

 

“Foolish old woman. You know nothing of our struggles, our suffering!”

            “Don’t look like you’re suffering to me with all that lard on your belly,” Cirroc drawled. The Redguard reminded Korli of so many whelps who’d come and gone through the years – young, big-mouthed and eager to prove themselves by picking fights. At least he had the skills to back up most of his boasts.

            “What of our suffering? Where is Thorald?” Fralia Grey-Mane asked bitterly. “I know you had something to do with his disappearance, Battle-Born.”

            “Why, I’ve got him locked up in my cellar!” Olfrid Battle-Born answered scornfully, not deigning to notice Cirroc, which would probably rankle the youth.

            Korli already knew the basics of what Avulstein, hiding in the clan-house, knew – which was precious little. Thorald had disappeared on his usual Dawnstar to Whiterun route about a month ago. She’d carefully determined that he was alive but imprisoned from the baby hair Fralia kept in a locket. That meant either the Legion or the Thalmor. Bandits in Skyrim knew that the Grey-Manes were poor as temple skeevers, so he wasn’t being held for ransom.

            “Your son chose his side poorly and now he’s paid for it,” Idolaf Battle-Born added mockingly. “Just like the rest of you traitor Grey-Manes will.”

            “Two men picking on an old woman. And here I thought Clan Battle-Born was known for its honour and courage.” Korli slapped a hand on each of their shoulders and squeezed a little. The advantages of being a blacksmith and knowing Olfrid had an arthritic shoulder and Idolaf injured his back during his service to the Legion. “Go find a worthy opponent, the pair of you, or we’ll discuss this in the battle-circle at the next Holdmoot.”

            Idolaf jerked his shoulder free of her grip with a wince. “If it isn’t the Bruma bitch herself.”

            “That’s Korli Clever-Crafter of Clan Grey-Mane to you, Battle-Born,” Korli responded sweetly. “Now run along and tell your Legion masters I’m back.”

            She released Olfrid, who glared at her and wisely chose to slink away. The mood she was in, any Battle-Born was a fair target.

            “Oh my dear girl.” Fralia looked ready to cry. “It’s so good to see you.”

            “And you, Ma.” Korli sighed and rounded the stall to give her a hug, murmuring in her ear, “I can confirm Thorald’s alive and imprisoned. I didn’t dare scry for more than that.”

            Fralia nodded, sniffing a little. “I would hate to lose two children.”

            “Close up the stall, Ma. You’re needed at the clan-house,” Korli said aloud. “Cirroc, the Bannered Mare’s just up the stairs behind us. For the love of the gods, don’t do anything stupid.”

            The Redguard youth looked offended but Korli knew his type. Thought he was invincible.

            “If you act appropriately and your great-grandfather approves, I could see about getting you a testing bout to join the Companions,” she added coaxingly.

            His eyes lit up. Like any Redguard, he craved a challenge, and the Yokudan style was second nature to him. Korli wanted to see how he’d cope with a two-handed weapon or sword and shield.

            “Another would-be whelp?” Fralia asked.

            “Yes and no. It’s complicated,” Korli murmured as she helped lock up everything. “I took the liberty of giving him and his great-grandfather hospitality until they conclude their business in Whiterun.”

            “It shouldn’t take much more than a day or two,” Cirroc assured her.

            “We can provide hospitality for as long as is needful,” Fralia said frostily. “Clan Grey-Mane is a family of honour – unlike those dung-sniffing Battle-Borns.”

            “Umm, I’ll just go to the Bannered Mare right about now,” Cirroc said hastily, realising he’d offended.

            “Good idea,” Korli observed dryly.

            They locked up the stall and headed towards the clan-house, Heimkr’s inspired preaching drifting past the- “Is that the _Gildergreen_?” Korli blurted in shock on seeing the dead tree.

            “Yes,” Fralia said sadly. “Died a few moons ago and Danica’s trying to find someone to fix it.”

            “You can’t fix dead,” Korli said flatly. “But I’ll speak to her. We worship the same goddess.”

            Not an hour home and already the problems were piling up.

            Inside, Avulstein had laid out mead, bread and cheese for Beroc, Bjarni and Ralof. The old Redguard had laid aside his Alik’r robes, leather breastplate and scimitar to reveal comfortable linen shirt and breeches while both Bjarni and Ralof had removed their armour. Korli was struck anew by how much the young Nord resembled both his parents – the Stormcloak’s heavy features blended with the Stormsword’s cragginess to make for a handsome boy. His eyes were more green than blue while his shoulder-length hair was brown-

“Ma, this is Lord Beroc of Dragonstar, Lord Bjarni Ulfricsson of Windhelm and Ralof Stormblade of the Stormcloaks,” Korli said formally. “Gentlemen, this is Fralia, my foster-mother and matriarch of Clan Grey-Mane.”

            “We are honoured by your hospitality,” Beroc responded with a seated bow. “I only apologise I don’t have a gift worthy of it.”

            “Your presence is gift enough,” Fralia said with a sad smile. “What brings you here?”

            “The Redguards are seeking a traitor,” Ralof said grimly. “And I persuaded the Stormsword to let Bjarni foster here for a few months.”

            Fralia’s eyebrows rose. “Ulfric’s boy’s welcome here, but we don’t have proper accommodations-“

            “You have honour and are my nearest blood-kin other than my brother and mother,” Bjarni interrupted quietly. “I’m privileged to be here.”

            “It wouldn’t be a bad idea for him to do some training with the Companions,” Avulstein added. “If… things go their worst, Bjarni may even be safest there.”

            Korli privately doubted it. But with Thorald missing, they needed every bit of hope they could get.

            “I’ll have a word to Kodlak about it,” she promised. “Lord Beroc, I assume you know your great-grandson wants to be a Companion.”

            “I do,” the Redguard sighed. “I am still deciding.”

            “I wouldn’t mind the company,” Bjarni said. “And Cirroc could use the discipline.”

            Korli personally thought a few arse-kickings at the hand of Vilkas would do the boy a world of good. “’Journey many and many miles, but do not leave the Hall of the Virtues of War’,” she quoted. “There hasn’t been a proper Redguard warrior in the halls of Jorrvaskr for generations – and no, Irkand doesn’t count. Your Cirroc even shares the name of the first non-Nord Harbinger, a Redguard man we know as Cirroc the Lofty.”

            Beroc’s eyebrow arched. “That’s an… interesting coincidence, Lady Korli. And may I say I’m impressed to hear a Nord quote from the Sundas Maxims of the _Book of Circles._ ”

            “My blood-father was Redguard,” she admitted quietly. “I don’t remember much about him but I felt it was best to know something of my paternal ancestry.”

            The Crown regarded her for a moment before nodding slowly. “Orphan of the Great War?”

            “Yes.” Her tone forbade any further questions and a wily old Crown like Beroc got the hint.

            “The Companions have copies of every book ever written about war,” Avulstein said proudly. If it wasn’t for the civil war, he’d have followed Vignar into Jorrvaskr by now. “We may stand for Nord honour but we recognise that our friends – and foes – have their own.”

            Korli let Fralia take the remaining seat, staying on her feet. She was used to standing even when her body ached. Training in Solstheim had been harsh. “Bjarni, when you’re done eating, can you show Lord Beroc to the guest chamber and prepare it for him?”

            “Yes, kinswoman,” Bjarni said quietly.

            “Thank you. Lord Beroc, I have no desire to appear rude but I’m sure you’d appreciate the opportunity for a hot bath before dinner.” Korli smiled as the canny diplomat narrowed his eyes. “If you go now, you’ll beat my foster-father, myself and Olfina to the hot water.”

            “I am quite capable of heating my own bathwater,” Beroc said with great dignity. “But your point is taken, Lady Korli. I hope you find your missing kinsman.”

            “Thank you,” she sighed. “I’m usually a bit more diplomatic but it’s been a long day.”

            “You’re not doing too badly,” the old man said dryly as Bjarni waited for him to rise. “I’ll try to keep your clan out of the Iman business. It will likely get ugly.”

            Ralof rose to his feet and bowed. “If you need assistance, the Stormcloaks are pleased to render it. Traitors to the Thalmor must be punished.”

            “Thank you, Lord Ralof.” Beroc returned the bow. “I actually find myself in need of that hot bath. I will see you at dinner.”

            When Bjarni and Beroc had left the common room, Korli tilted her head at her family and Ralof. “What Beroc doesn’t know, he can officially look away from, and Bjarni’s too young to know about Thorald’s likely fate.”

            “What do you mean, Korli?” Avulstein asked. “He’s a man. Beroc told me that he killed a necromancer at the Ritual Stone.”

            “He’s also a young man who lost his father,” Korli said grimly. “And… it’s a better than likely chance that either the Legion or the Thalmor took Thorald. The former will just torture him for information on the Stormcloaks. The latter will break him and reshape him into their desired image unless we find a way to rescue him, one way or another.”

            Fralia made a choked sound but Ralof was already nodding in confirmation. “She’s right, Avulstein. Some Stormcloaks suffered Thalmor… reconditioning. Some of them regained most of themselves. Others… needed a mercy-strike and a prayer for Shor to receive them in Sovngarde.”

            “And as a kinsman to Ulfric Stormcloak, Thorald would be a pretty damned good prize,” Korli agreed. “I’m hoping they’ve been taking it slow over the past few weeks because it means we can save Thorald. But if they went hard and fast…”

            “Anyone can be broken.” Ralof paused and added, “Even Ulfric. You know what happened to him.”

            Fralia nodded, tears in her eyes. “I understand.”

            Korli sighed and sat down in a vacated seat. “I saw some of what the Thalmor did in Bruma and later on Solstheim. I want to save my little brother from that no matter what must be done.”

            Ralof’s eyes widened. “The Thalmor are on Solstheim?”

            “ _Were_ on Solstheim,” Korli said dryly. “The ones I didn’t kill, the Skaal – Nords who are probably closest to the old Atmoran ways – and Houses Redoran and Telvanni got.”

            She leaned forward and fixed the commander with a steely gaze. “I assure you, the only people to almost match the Nords’ hatred for the goldskins might just be the Dunmer. You just need to convince them that this too is their fight.”

            “We’ll see,” Ralof said cautiously. “So, if you need Stormcloak resources to rescue Thorald, they’re yours. He was one of Ulfric’s prime messengers.”

            Korli nodded. “I need the location of the major Legion and Thalmor outposts in Skyrim…”

            Not even a day home and she was already in the fight. Her mother, damn her cold heart, would be proud if she knew.


	5. The Testing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for fantastic racism, classism, violence, and mentions of death.

 

Sigdrifa sat on a low fur-covered stool before the Throne of Ysgramor with Egil, the only son left to her, standing next to her. Ralof had played the game well, she was forced to concede, and taken Bjarni off to Whiterun. She only agreed because dividing the heirs increased the chance of Ulfric’s lineage (and hers) surviving. But she would remember the parry and riposte of her verbal duel with Ralof. Yes, she would…

            Morndas was always Hearing Day, when the commoners of the Hold could approach their Jarl. Alarmingly, there were more than a few greyskins peppering the crowd and even an Argonian. Thankfully, there were no Khajiit in the city. She’d reinforced _that_ order – not entirely out of malice or fear of theft but because, even if the cat was an enemy of the Thalmor, they didn’t understand discretion and information would eventually leak back to Elenwen and her friends in Solitude.

            When the first Dunmer stepped forward, Sigdrifa gave her a slashing look. “If this is about the lack of guards in the Grey Quarter, I hope you understand that we’re at war and don’t have the manpower to spare.”

            She lifted her chin. “Actually, I wish to put in a complaint about Rolff Stone-Fist. He and Angrenor Once-Honoured decided to accost me before the Candlehearth Hall Inn and declare I was an Imperial spy.”

             “Well, are you?” Sigdrifa asked pointedly.

            “My name is Suvaris Atheron and I am the factor for the Shatter-Shields’ shipping company,” the Dunmer said coolly. “If I were an Imperial spy, Your Grace, a lot of damage would have been done to the sea-supply routes by now.”

            Egil arched an eyebrow. “Atheron – that is a name of some respect and reputation in the Grey Quarter.”

            “It is.” Suvaris bowed her head to Egil respectfully. “My brothers and I aren’t afraid of hard work, Lord Egil. We simply ask to be given the respect that our labour deserves.”

            “Torbjorn, would you say that Suvaris Atheron is a free woman of good repute?” Egil continued, looking at the rich Thane pointedly.

            “Err, yes, I suppose so,” Torbjorn said wearily. The poor man had lost his daughter to the Windhelm Butcher.

            “Would you claim she is loyal?”

            “Yes. She’s, ah, instrumental in our sea-supply routes and could have caused a lot of trouble with the East Empire Trading Company just next door.”

            “Then her complaint is valid – at least in my reading of the law.” Egil glanced sideways at Sigdrifa and Galmar. “Suvaris Atheron has been vouched for by a Nord of good repute. In fact, her reputation is decidedly better than Rolff’s.”

            “What are you saying, boy?” Galmar rumbled, eyes flickering.

            “That your brother owes wergild for the insult. If we expect the Dunmer to live by our laws while in Skyrim, we should apply them equally to them, for good and for ill.”

            Galmar’s mouth tightened. “Boy-“

            “I can only offer my opinion. The final decision rests upon my mother the Regent.”

            _You little bastard,_ Sigdrifa thought, half-despairing and half-admiring. Egil had put her on the spot. While it boded well for her son’s future, it certainly promised a lot of stress in the future.

            “Egil is correct. Suvaris Atheron is entitled to an honour price. As she is Dunmer, it will be set at half the amount for a true Nord of good repute.” Sigdrifa raked her gaze across the crowd. “Bosmer and Altmer who are proven to be enemies of the Thalmor are worth a similar amount. Beastmen and Orcs are worth a quarter of a true Nord. Legion and Thalmor are automatically ranked as nithing and therefore _have_ no honour-price. Those of free Redguards, Imperials and Bretons remain the same.”

            “Does that apply to wages?” asked the Argonian, a whip-lean male in brown homespun. “Because that’d be more than what Torbjorn pays us now!”

            “You live in the Assemblage and receive rations,” Torbjorn retorted. “That _is_ the extra pay.”

            The Argonian looked ready to argue but one glance at Sigdrifa, who was glaring at him, silenced the lizard.

            “Your judgment is most appreciated,” Suvaris said with a deep bow of the head. At least the Dunmer had decent manners. “Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome. Dismissed.” Sigdrifa flicked her fingers in farewell as Galmar regarded Egil with something resembling betrayal.

            “The Dunmer and the Argonians are flour packed in earth-tarred barrels within a wooden warehouse,” Egil murmured. “If we don’t start treating them with a little more respect, they’ll support the Legion just out of spite.”

            “They refuse to fight for Skyrim,” rumbled Galmar.

            “Because we haven’t convinced them it’s their fight.” Egil looked between his elders. “They think no matter who wins, they’ll be alright, or at least things won’t get any worse for them.”

            That was… perceptive. Sigdrifa allowed her sons to speak during the meetings once they were old enough to do and Ulfric actively encouraged them to politick with the Thanes. Bjarni had done so dutifully while Egil relished it as an intellectual exercise.

            Galmar grunted in reply just as Jorleif allowed someone else to step forward.

            By the time Hearing Day was over, Sigdrifa was exhausted. How did Ulfric handle this _and_ a war all at once?

            The Great Hall was cleared of petitioners and Jorleif silently handed her a flagon of mead, which she drained in one long swallow.

            “We’ll have to give the Shatter-Shields some sort of trade exclusivity to mollify their pride,” the Steward noted. “But… Lord Egil has a point. We need to find a way to get the Dunmer and Argonians on our side.”

            Galmar grunted. “I can have Great War veterans start telling tales of what the Thalmor did to the Dunmer and Argonians in Bravil.”

            “That’s a start. Stick in one hand, carrot in the other.” Sigdrifa held out her flagon and Jorleif filled it again. “Egil, I see your point but by the gods you need some tact, boy.”

            “Rolff’s a drunken arse who insults decent citizens going about their business,” Egil said bluntly. “I’m sorry, Uncle Galmar, but I’ve heard what he says in the Grey Quarter. I’m a little surprised he hasn’t met with a tragic accident.”

            “The Dunmer know that if my brother died, they’d be the first suspects and I would take bloodgeld from them with my axe,” Galmar growled. “Rolff has his faults, I know. But as a Nord, he’s worth more than them under the law.”

            Egil’s lips pursed and Sigdrifa shook her head. No need to provoke the field commander of the Stormcloak armies who’d lost his best friend and Jarl.

            “Yrsarald tells me that Bjarni made it safely to Whiterun and even killed a Dunmer necromancer along the way,” Sigdrifa said, changing the subject. “He’s a little young for it but for all intents and purposes, he’s a man now.”

            “That was a smart move of Ralof’s – Sigdrifa, forgive me, but you’re thinking as a mother, not as a Jarl.” Galmar regarded her sadly. “Bjarni will be ready to claim his inheritance – whatever the Moot decides it should be – within the year. The Grey-Manes are solid and the Companions will burnish his honour.”

            “I know – but I don’t think Ralof approves of me being Regent.” She might as well be honest with the old bear.

            “He’s just worried about the fight. Remember, Ulfric was the beauty and you were the brains.” Galmar’s smile was a weak and heartbroken thing. “The struggle has no figurehead at the moment, Stormsword. I think that’s what he’s concerned about.”

            “Talos willing, the Dragonborn will be a Stormcloak,” Jorleif observed. “If they’re capable and loyal, we could make them the face of the rebellion as the hero of prophecy.”

            “What if they think they should sit in the High King’s seat?” Galmar pointed out.

            “I wouldn’t argue with the one who binds and banishes the World-Eater,” Jorleif countered bluntly. “Ulfric would understand if they were a worthy successor – Bjarni and Egil would inherit Windhelm and Falkreath regardless.”

            “Jorleif’s got a point,” Egil agreed wryly. Then his expression sobered. “Mother, Uncle Galmar – I’m not arguing for us to embrace the Dunmer and Argonians as brothers. I know our history. But I’m worried about the huge potential for catastrophe if they’re subverted by Legion spies because things _are_ so bad for them.”

            Jorleif stroked his impressive moustache. “That’s a good thought. Stormsword – we can use this. Egil is the holder of the carrot, Galmar the stick, and you apply them as needed.”

             She hadn’t thought of it in that context. And thankfully Egil wasn’t about to become a mer-loving lizard friend.

            The challenge would be keeping the Dunmer and Argonians in their place while earning their loyalty.

            Sigdrifa was never good at a balancing act. Talos grant her a little of His political savvy.

…

“So. You’re Ulfric’s get.”

            Bjarni felt his newly acquired adulthood drain into the hard-packed earth of Jorrvaskr’s training yard under the critical gaze of Vilkas. He suddenly felt like the scared boy who needed monsters to be ordered out by the Jarl before he could sleep. Vilkas, the sternest of the Companions and unchallenged master of the greatsword, regarded him with storm-grey eyes that summed up his every moral and physical failure.

            “Uh, yes, sir, I am,” he mumbled.

            Vilkas snorted. “I’d have thought you’d show more of a backbone.”

            “Maybe you’re just being an intimidating arsehole,” Korli Clever-Crafter observed from the top of the Skyforge.

            “If he thinks I’m scary, he’ll shit himself when faced with a Legionnaire!” retorted the Hero-Twin. “Don’t you have smithing to do?”

            “I’m waiting on the delivery of some wolf pelts because a particularly stupid Companion whose name rhymes with ‘sil-kas’ managed to utterly destroy the straps of his armour,” Korli said blandly.

            “If you want to be a smartarse, I can drill you with the children,” the arms master offered with a smirk.

            Bjarni looked between them. How could Korli taunt such an intimidating legendary warrior like Vilkas?

            “Bjarni and Cirroc are men by the standards of Skyrim and Hammerfell,” Korli pointed out. “You should remember that.”

            If Bjarni was nearly scared of Vilkas then Cirroc was too cocky. “You know what they say about two-handed swords in Hammerfell?” he taunted.

            “Yeah. One hit from a Nord and the Alik’r sword-dancer is dead,” Vilkas said dryly.

            “I was going to say something about overcompensating for fragile masculinity,” Cirroc said cheerfully.

            Vilkas glanced up at Korli. “You want me to treat them like men?”

            The smith inclined her head with a smirk. “Do so.”

            What followed was a precise demonstration on why a sixteen-year-old, however a master of the Yokudan style, shouldn’t mock a hardened veteran at least twice his age. Vilkas was an artist with his greatsword, the Skyforge Steel blade shining blue-silver in the sun as he ran Cirroc around the yard until the Redguard was dripping with sweat, striking him now and then with the flat of his weapon. It was obvious that Cirroc had never faced an enemy who fought with a greatsword before.

            Lord Beroc arrived during the… bout… and arched an eyebrow. The Redguards had confirmed the presence of Iman al-Sudra – also known as Saadia the pretty barmaid that Ralof blushed to remember – and were planning their capture. Rumour was Jarl Balgruuf was… being cagy. As always.

            “He made a joke about greatswords that we Nords hear all the time,” Bjarni explained shortly.

            Beroc shook his head with a sigh. “And so he’s receiving a lesson in humility. I feared this would happen to him.”

            In the circle, Cirroc raised his hands in surrender.

            “You’re soft and slow,” Vilkas decreed as he sheathed his greatsword. Aside from a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, he was unaffected by the long chase. “Now draw your sword. I will see your skill.”

            “Are you fucking shitting me?” Cirroc blurted.

            “’In the battle-circle, the arms master is a god’,” Korli quoted cryptically.

            Bjarni decided to start his stretches. It would be less painful in the long run.

            “You claim you want to be a Companion,” Vilkas said harshly. “Yet you refuse to show your skill. Why – did your mother give you milk this morning for breakfast?”

            Cirroc had been in Skyrim long enough to get the insult. He drew his scimitar and went into a defensive stance.

            He managed to score a few hits on Vilkas but in the end, the Companion tripped him up and put the tip of his greatsword to the Redguard’s throat. “You aren’t a complete loss.”

            “I was… the sword-champion… of Dragonstar,” Cirroc gasped.

            “And you’ve seen very little battle. Duels are elegant, pretty affairs. Battle is something else.” Vilkas scratched his stubbled chin. “Within the battle-circle of Jorrvaskr, you’re forbidden to use your scimitar. On jobs-“

            “What do you mean by ‘on jobs’?” Beroc suddenly asked.

            “Cirroc wants to become a whelp. They’re sent on mercenary jobs under the eye of an experienced Companion,” Korli explained. “If you’re just wanting him to learn how to fight…”

            “That will cost you,” Vilkas finished bluntly. “The Companions will take in students but we ask a gift for the honour.”

            Beroc was nodding. “I… understand. May Cirroc join Bjarni in his training until a particular situation is resolved? I’m not certain I want to risk my only heir as a hiresword until I know more about your order beyond its reputation.”

            “I see no reason why not. He stays with us and lives as a whelp.” Vilkas’ tone was a little politer.

            “Understood.” Beroc’s gaze was wry. “Even a week or so of your tuition, Sword-Master Vilkas, will stand my great-grandson in good stead.”

            Bjarni walked over to help Cirroc to his feet. “Still want to be a Companion?”

            “By Leki, _yes_ ,” Cirroc breathed.

            “Talos have mercy on your soul because the Companions won’t.” He turned to face Vilkas, taking a deep breath. “I’m ready for my assessment, sir.”

            This was going to hurt almost as much as the loss of his father. But like Ulfric’s death, it would make him stronger.


End file.
